


The Lady of Shalott

by TheGirlInTheB



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gen, Grumpy Geralt, M/M, Monsters, Music, Overstimulation, Singing, Songfic, author is autistic, humans are loud, roach is a good horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27758995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheB/pseuds/TheGirlInTheB
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier have been staying in small quiet villages. This noisy city full of sights and smells and sounds can be really hard on a Witcher -but Jaskier's there to help his Witcher find his way home.Not beta readFic contains song lyrics from Loreena Mckennitt's Lady of Shalott. I don't own the song or take credit for them.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	The Lady of Shalott

He cannot remember life before the trials. It’s there somewhere, in the spiral of time, in the mists of the past. Once Geralt was a human boy; dumped like a kitten in a basket at the nearest Witcher’s feet. Back before his eyes were gold, before his body was mutated and made near-ageless. Before he started on the Path. 

It might as well not exist anymore –that time long ago. It’s not like Geralt remembers it after all these long years. The White Wolf doesn’t spend much time thinking on it either; not particularly anyhow. That life long ago is gone and he’s here now with his sword deep in the guts of a Drowner. The mucky bog water that’s drawn up to his thighs is running murky and thick with the creature’s blood; the smell of peat and green damp earth now marred by the ghastly smell of Drowner guts. 

It’s sharp in his nose; he can taste it in the back of his throat. Geralt just knows the smell will seep into his armor ---- stink the inn up if he stays an extra night. 

Jaskier will complain. 

Or write a poem about it. 

Whichever comes first he supposes, jerking the sword out of the Drowner with a wet grinding sound as the blade snarls past bone on the way out. He can feel the rasp of it up into the grip and hilt echoing in his palms. Oozing blood drips thickly into the water from the silver-sharp blade edge; plip, plip, plip into the sudden stillness of the bog. The birds remain quiet; the frogs haven’t started up again, not a squirrel in sight. The woods around him are still as the wildlife waits to come out of hiding. This part Geralt likes the best. So still. So quiet. Nothing dares to even breathe.

There are days Geralt wants to melt into that quiet. Become one with it. Become the stillness. 

He’d take his time, meditate here a while –but there’s a Drowner’s head to take and coin to be paid (provided the town folk don’t try to back down on the price). 

As he readies himself to head back into town Geralt knows he will miss the stillness. Taking the Drowner’s head he crams it into a large sack that smells like burlap and the damp stable it likely lived in before Geralt got it. It takes some doing for the Witcher to heft himself up onto firmer ground, the muck and mud often giving way. His armor is wet to the skin, his boots full of slime and water and probably muck from the bog –for being out of the water his feet feel like they never left. 

Fantastic. 

A bath when he gets back –he promises himself –a nice hot one. If they aren’t kicked out of the inn for bringing the stench of a Drowner back. Humans may be nose-blind ---and nearly deaf and sightless as well as far as Witchers are concerned ---but even they know a Drowner stinks worse than a shit-pile. Got to give them that, Geralt supposes. 

Roach nickers and snorts a little as a sopping wet Geralt returns to where she’s waiting. The mare blinks eyes at him and turns her head slightly away. 

“I know I stink.” He gruffs softly to her, “At least it wasn’t like the last one. Not as big.” But younger and full of youth’s courage and stupidity –the damn thing didn’t know when it was beat. It had fought Geralt to the last and the Witcher’s body’s feeling it now. By morning after some food and rest (and a bath –he silently begs) the soreness will be but a memory. 

The chestnut mare tosses her pretty mane as the Witcher takes up her reigns. Geralt likes Roach because she doesn’t speak in noisy words. Her body speaks for her plenty and she’s a very opinionated horse; but whatever she tells Geralt is usually important. Something that needs to be said. And honest. Direct and to the point. She’s tired, she’s hungry, Geralt smells like a shit-pile. 

He walks Roach back to town; sparing her from carrying his reeking hide all the way and spoiling the saddle. 

At least the air is clear, at least the road back to town is well worn and even. 

Town. 

It’s a larger community than Geralt and Jaskier had darkened as of late. Tiny villages and hamlets had pocked the countryside this side of the Continent and while most of them were terribly warry of Witchers the cheery bard that accompanied him seemed to ease the fears and dubious looks. It’s an unexpected side effect of traveling with Jaskier; humans look at him less like he’s about to slaughter and devour the entire perish. After all…the fancy bard in his silk doublet and his soft fair face and jaunty songs is still standing. Surely Geralt would have killed him eaten him first, right? 

Jaskier would no doubt have some cheeky joke about that. 

But he hadn’t joked when they’d come into this town which was sprawling enough to have a west wall and rows of market stalls and houses and more than one inn. 

“There’s more than one inn, Geralt!” Jaskier had proclaimed, spreading his arms wide as though Geralt hadn’t seen it for himself –smelled it for himself with the scent of ale and the stables. “That means we have choices! Surely one of these fine establishments knows what a proper bed and bath look like!” It’s true their last inn had just had a tub outside the back of the inn that passed for a bath. And a slab of old linens that would have been a bed if you were desperate. Or a Witcher who was used to sleeping on the ground. It had reeked though, of humans and old hay and…someone had cum on it not just once. 

Geralt had taken the floor and wasn’t sure which he was more disgusted with –that he’d paid coin for this or that some fool had managed to pleasure themselves in that tussle of dirty linens. 

Jaskier had the good sense to see the ‘bed’ for the disgrace it was –if not smell it –and tossed the spoiled linens before tossing his own bedroll onto the pallet and sleeping on that. 

Another unsuspected side effect of the happy bard was the sudden uptick in coin; Geralt’s contracts usually were enough for a time but if he wasn’t careful it was back to hunting and sleeping under the stars and wishing for a pint. But Jaskier’s singing –while maybe less than Geralt’s contracts (when the towns folk didn’t try to stiff him) –was more frequent. And the bard was a generous man, helping to split the cost of a room or a meal. Geralt’s not spent this much time in a proper bed or this well fed on the Path. Never spent this much time with a person –a human –for that matter.

So even though their new room has only one bed –again –Jaskier isn’t complaining (he really never has –‘it’s only fiscally responsible, dear Witcher’) –the bath is a real bath and the ale actually isn’t too bad. 

People still gave Geralt the stink eye when he’d come and gone, or sat quietly watching Jaskier sing and play for coin and a free meal. But he’s not as bothered by it as Jaskier who makes sure to play Toss a Coin more than once per night out of spite. Geralt’s not sure if it’s worked at all here, and walking into town smeared in muck and blood and guts is really not helping the bard’s efforts. 

By now most of what Geralt can smell is the Drowner and the bog; but his ears are picking up the regular noise and clamor of the town. Some of the stink of it too is seeping in just on the fringes –that hot unwashed smell of humans and some of the cooking spices wafting from open windows and taverns. Horses and damp hay and warm rooftops and…people. 

But it’s the noise that gets him. 

And a part of the Witcher knew this was coming; in a way he’d been spoiled by the small hamlets and villages, each one small and quiet and uneventful. None such an offense to the White Wolf’s sharp senses –senses mutated to hunt in utter darkness, to hear the slightest heartbeat, to catch the cold scent of a monster…

In a town he’s drowning. 

The squeal and shriek of children playing in the streets –a boy chases a hoop across the pathways and his mates scream and wail after him. Their high calls reaching sharper octaves that feel more like a knife’s edge than a voice. The man whistling as he goes about his deliveries two streets over is sharp –a grain of glass being scrubbed into his brain. Washing flaps lazily on the line –three streets away. A drunk woman steps out of a small tavern into his path laughing shrilly and Geralt jerks away from her sharply –the two staring at each other (the woman likely sobering up). Her man drunk on her heels yelling abuse because some dirty shit mutant’s out scaring ladies now –hey! Here, now! Don’t you walk a’way from me!

Geralt’s muscles jump in his jaw –his usual temper darkening into deep annoyance because everyone is fucking loud and it hurts and he can’t really make it stop. 

He can’t punch or cut or cleave this. 

(He can, he has –Butcher.) 

He’s drowning. 

Geratl’s jaw tightens, his fingers clutch the dirty sack, his free hand digging half-moon grooves into his warn palms. The pain a counter point, something else to think on as the people about him mill and call and shout and whistle and BREATH. They’re breathing –so loud Geralt could have shot them in the dark. Wet and loud and gasping and shrill---

And after a tussle with a Drowner, after the work of it, the high of it, the adrenaline of it, their noises, their breathing is setting him on edge. His skin tight under his wet clothes drying gross and itchy against his skin, his nose full of shit-smell…

A part of Geralt is back in that calm bog; birds too scared to sing. He is the stillness –he wants that stillness now. 

“HORSEY-!” A child screams delightedly –Geralt feels the delighted notes in his skin, in his brain like a physical thing –and the shriek that follows when the gap-toothed boy gets a good look at who’s holding Roach’s reigns and the dripping sack full of Drowner’s brains and skull and meat…

Geralt is hurrying Roach along the path away from the glass-tipped cries of the child –and the wretched fear-stink rising from him –away from the crowd that’s gathering, away from the bog he should have fucking stayed in until dusk. Dusk when all the noisy humans went indoors and the streets quieted enough that it wouldn’t feel like he was burning, drowning in his own skin. 

But that was also the past. 

Most of the townsfolk who get a look at him duck back into their houses or doorways, some hold their noses, some turn aside and complain loudly about mutants stinking up the town. Geralt hears it all woven and interwoven layers upon layers of sound until their voices are a sea. The pain of his hand no longer weighs more than the pain that has burrowed under his skull and skin and…the frank panic that sets in when his senses are overwhelmed. He’s drowning. 

He’s drowning. 

Geralt should have stayed in the bog –should have drowned in that instead –fucking fuck. He turns his head into Roach’s thick neck and tries to breathe it out, breath in her clean horse scent, but she’s not fond of his Drowner-bog-shit smell.   
At this point his body is taking him towards the inn by himself. A flight of panic more than anything. A slippery rock he’s clinging to in the current trying to sweep him under. 

Get to the inn. 

Get to the inn. 

Get to the inn and hide. 

And a part of him growls that the inn will not be the sweet reprieve of the bog. Too late to turn back now. 

Too late, hang onto the rock. 

Hang onto the rock and keep walking. 

Too late. 

Hold on. 

It’s the soft strum of lute strings that brush softly though the air and the pain and annoyance of it all ---it’s the lute and the voice humming along quietly that startles Geralt and pricks his ears towards the inn. He knows that voice –not so much the song –he knows that lute. The chords are smooth and easy and like a balm soothing over the cracks and chips in his aching head –now solidly pounding with a steady ache. The voice becomes a new rock for Geralt as he takes those last three streets to their inn –stealing his resolve to reach it and that voice.

‘---But in her web she still delights   
To weave the mirror's magic sights,  
For often thro' the silent nights  
A funeral, with plumes and lights  
And music went to Camelot;  
Or when the Moon was overhead,  
Came two young lovers lately wed.  
‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said  
The Lady of Shalott.” 

Geralt would have wept if he remembered how –did Witchers cry? When was the last time Geralt cried? Before or after the trials? It was a long time ago. The music isn’t like the other noises –not sharp or hot or sudden…and not demanding anything from him. Like the conversations he has with Roach; perfect in that it doesn’t ask for a response. Geralt quickens his broad strides, growls at a few human who cross his path –they’re loud and in the way and he hurts –the city smell is starting to creep in over the shit-smell of the Drowner and that’s another layer of information his brain does not want now. The Witcher thinks about closing his eyes, doing what he can to cut out something –anything –of the world around him but he’s still too keyed up from the Drowner fight and now with the pain of the city -, he needs his eyes. 

“A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,  
He rode between the barley sheaves,  
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,  
And flamed upon the brazen greaves  
Of bold Sir Lancelot.  
A red-cross knight forever kneel'd  
To a lady in his shield,  
That sparkled on the yellow field,  
Beside remote Shalott.”

Geralt’s shoving Roach’s reigns into the nimble hands of the short stable boy –he smells like apples and old hey and horses --and growls something tight and angry that must be ‘take care of her’. His overwhelmed senses swear that if he never speaks again it will be too soon. If he never has to string a sentence together he’ll die a happy man. 

The people in the bar downstairs of the inn are worse –loud and boisterous though only four of them day-drinking –Geralt shudders as they bray and cough and spill ale that smells of thick malt and barley and oh fuck one of them is shouting something at Geralt ---about the head in the bag and the shit-smell and fucking Witchers, fucking mutants ----   
He can still hear the lute from up the stairs and down the hall –soft, much kinder than the drunkards or the Drowner’s head or the innkeep who is now shouting something like ‘CAN’T BRING THAT SHIT IN HERE!’   
He understands –the Drowner in the bag reeks and he reeks and everything hurts now –the men want him to say words and soon and make them make sense but his last words went to the stable hand –the boy who smelled like horses and hay and that was that. 

“Heard a carol, mournful, holy,  
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,  
Till her blood was frozen slowly,  
And her eyes were darkened wholly,  
Turn'd to towered Camelot.  
For ere she reach'd upon the tide  
The first house by the water-side,  
Singing in her song she died,  
The Lady of Shalott.” 

He grunts out a snarl, shoving the bloody bag full of brains and meat and bone into the inn keeper’s hands –or general direction –before taking the stairs up as swiftly as he can. It’s practically a run now because he needs to be away; back at the bog melting into silence or with that lute and the soft balm-like voice. 

“Under tower and balcony,  
By garden-wall and gallery,  
A gleaming shape she floated by,  
Dead-pale between the houses ---,”   
Jaskier stops his playing suddenly as the door to their room shoves open and Geralt stumbles in. 

“Geralt-! You’re back –filthy and…oh gods, what is that smell?” The bard hops down from the open window where he’d been idly playing, getting ready for the evening’s set and still pouting because Geralt had left him behind on yet another hunt.   
Jaskier’s smell is strongly human; musky, salty, sweet –but never afraid. And that’s a minor miracle because most humans reek of fear when Geralt’s around. Hot, sour, sharp fear-stink. 

He’s smelt it on Jaskier a few times but not because of the Witcher.

Geralt snarled, letting himself prowl into the room, pulling tightly at his hair in frustration; the song was gone, Jaskier is talking –waiting for an answer, breathing loud –no song, no balm, no bog ---,

It was all a long time ago. 

A slippery rock in the river. 

“Geralt? You alright?” The Bard eyes his companion carefully –he was sure Geralt’s eyes weren’t blackened with Cat…”Are you hurt?” 

And Geralt cannot stand it. It’s too much. He punches a fist through the small wood desk –the poor thing standing by the farthest wall from the door. It splinters. It didn’t have a chance. 

“Right then –no call for violence –I’m sure the desk didn’t mean it.” Jaskier prattles carefully. Approaching slowly and with much less self-preservation than the Witcher would have liked, “Geralt? What do you need?”   
The whine that escapes the White Wolf is one he’ll deny to his last breath. But fuck it hurts. His body feels like it’s burnt out and raw –sizzling, smoking, steaming, burnt. Please don’t make him talk. Please. Not another word. No more words. 

Let him be still. 

Let him be quiet. 

Let him be the emptiness of the bog. 

Let him meditate and be. 

Jaskier carefully reaches up and covers Geralt’s hands with his own, trying to loosen the Witcher’s fierce grip on his own hair. Soothing his palms open. 

“Geralt –you’re bleeding.” The bard’s voice is upset at the half-moon cuts in his rough palms dug there by nails in an attempt to counterpoint the pain. Geralt hadn’t noticed it and gods, he barely cares. Jaskeir’s still talking but lowly.   
“You’d tell me if you were cursed –poisoned? You’re not, are you? One grunt for yes two for no.” A little of that fear-stink is colouring him now prompting Geralt to grunt. 

“Well, glad we ruled that out--,” It doesn’t quite take the fear away. Jaskier’s afraid…because of Geralt? Because he might be hurt? It’s not entirely novel; he’s come back to the bardling far more hurt or bloodied and that smell had been there, only washed away when Geralt confirmed his health. 

It was still strange, though. Traveling with a human. 

A human who cared that he was well. 

The men downstairs are still loud and drunk, two rooms over a man is snoring loudly, in the streets a cart rolls by. Geralt whines again and tries to cover his ears, screw his eyes shut. The fierce pounding on their door sets Geralt’s teeth to grinding and Jaskeir casts a look between his Wticher and the door. Jaskier, worried fear-stink rising off him again, seems to have put a few pieces together –Geralt supposes you don’t get to be a good bard without keeping your eyes open, and Jaskier is thoroughly observant. 

“Gentlemen.” Jaskier has the door open only enough to be polite but no further. 

“Tell that fuckin’, no good mutant beast that he can’t just come in here blood and stinkin’ -!” Too loud, too loud, too loud – 

“So let me understand –this bloody mutant beast who’s just returned from slaying a monster well worth ten men –this is the man who you wish to bother?” Jaskier pulls a face as though the day-drinker’s plan is plainly suicide –and it might be really, if Geralt decides to punch them rather than the furniture, “I can get him for you if you’re committed to it, by all means, gentlemen -, Geralt!” He stage calls, more for the benefit of the humans outside than the Witcher within. “He’ll not be a moment, lads, just cleaning two very big swords –blood and gore and all that-,” 

But the day-drinkers think better of it and retreat. Geralt hears each step and grumble as they leave. The door closes quietly and stillness follows after. His skin too tight, his clothes damp and cold now –his body feels like it’s steaming, like a cracked and burned out log off the fire sizzling fine ash and smoke. All used up. 

No more words. 

Jaskier’s not silent enough that a Witcher’s senses can’t track him as he moves back towards his side. Probably wise, spooking a Witcher at all would never end well.

“They’re gone. Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” His voice is pitched lower, softer than Geralt’s known it. Putting the words together hurts, but the bath is what Geralt had wanted –promised himself –all the way back at the bog.   
A life time ago, it seems. 

The tub is still filled with water –cool now, but Geralt doesn’t give a sweet damn anymore and isn’t going to try for Igni now that he’s this raw and over stimulated. His body is damp and soggy from the bog and Jaskier wrinkles his nose at the smell as he carefully helps Geralt strip. The clothes will need a wash, the armor will need cleaning. The sharp contrast of damp to wet as he sinks his body into the tub is a shock, but dunking his head under is bliss. Geralt’s world becomes water; dark and thick and quiet –like the blood in his veins, like the bog. Stillness, heaviness, weightless under the dark surface. He can still make out the faint clinking from the bar –the kitchens and the chatter of the day-drinkers but they’re far away. And he is here in the dark. 

Geralt comes up and Jaskier looks relieved –he must have held his breath for some time.   
“Thought I was going to have to come in after you.” He murmurs reaching for some of the soaps and oils he keeps for washing. Geralt’s hand snatches the bard’s wrist wetly –the feel of warm, dry skin dusted with fine, soft hair ---Jaskier’s human scent. 

"No scented things.” He guesses. Clever, observant bard. 

Geralt grunts. 

“It’s frightening how good I’m getting at reading your non-comital commentary.” Jaskier offers, helping Geralt out of the tub. His quick eyes spy no serious damage to the Witcher; fresh heavy bruises and small cuts but nothing that won’t heal by dawn and he doubts like this Geralt will let him check him further. He’d seen the Witcher tighten his stance as they entered the town; sit in the furthest corner of the bar and leave after only one pint of ale…eyes darting quickly towards each loud sound. Jaskier watched him scent the air more often, watched the Witcher’s shoulders tense up as soon as the crowds crept up ---there was a shuttering that had come over Geralt the moment they came into the town that hadn’t been present in the villages.   
Over stimulation was as fine a guess as any since Geralt had denied poisoning or curses. Now that Jaskier thinks about it it makes sense; the Witcher has always had sharp senses –how sharp exactly Jaskier isn’t entirely sure of, but far sharper than any human’s easily. 

And the town is loud; busy and populated.

And Geralt’s seeing and hearing and smelling it all.

A fresh shirt, some clean trousers and the Witcher looks almost presentable if it weren’t for that warn look on his face or the tightness still in his shoulders, the way he’s still shying from the noises coming from the bar. How had he managed to get back to the inn –Jaskier wonders. 

“Come on then,” He keeps his voice low, guiding Geralt towards the bed. Geralt climbs onto the bed, shifts restlessly from his stomach to his back growling –the world still too much - and finally, after a particularly rough groan, he snatches the Bard’s wrist and pulls Jaskier on top of him. The squawk that comes out of the human is…not helpful and Geralt winces with a whine. Hands coming up to cover his ears, nails digging roughly into skin, teeth barred. Jaskier’s own hands slap over his mouth with a muttered ‘sorry’. He wants to protest that his body draped over Geralt’s can’t be comfortable but the Witcher doesn’t seem to mind the press, the full weight of the man on top of him. Weighing him down like the water.   
They lay like this for a time, Jaskier trying desperately not to squirm or fidget –he’s never been this close to Geralt before –not really. He’s wanted to be –stars above he’s wanted to be. The strong planes of Geralt’s chest and belly, the smell of his skin, his damp white hair so close. Jaskier’s cheeks must be hot and pinked now; the Witcher must notice it surely…but still Geralt’s tense under him. His face still tight with pain. 

Any romantic thought –any sexy thought Jaskier had dims. 

This isn’t about sex. Geralt’s not injured but he is hurt. 

Carefully Jaskier takes a chance. 

“One grunt for yes two for no. You walked back from the bog?” 

It takes longer for Geralt to grunt out a rough sound –longer than either would have liked but it’s there. 

“You walked through the noisy town?” 

Yes. 

“It’s too loud here?” 

Yes. Too loud, too smelly…too everything. 

“How did you manage getting back?” This is pushing it –he needs more than a grunt –but the worried curious question is out before he can stop it. Surely Geralt should be curled up someplace waiting it out…

Geralt doesn’t answer and Jaskier is almost resigned to never knowing – when the soft twang of fingers brushing lightly against lute strings. The lute still resting on the bed beside them. It hits Jaskier in a rush; his singing, sitting in the window…he’d been playing….and Geralt had heard him and followed it back… he must look like a gasping fish; mouth opening and closing as all the words jam up in his throat. 

“I thought you hated my singing.” He tries to keep his voice low but his eyebrows reaching high, his words incredulous. Geralt doesn’t speak or grunt but glares gold-yellow eyes at the bard, only to look away like he can’t face this conversation right now. Jaskier’s human scent spices, turns musky and excited and the Witcher just knows he’d be up and moving about excitedly if he could. 

“We ARE talking about this –not now, but we are, Geralt of Rivia.” And Geralt does whine at this because words and it’s too much right now and he pinches the bardling just enough to make him gasp –which isn’t better but it’s not him talking.   
Jaskier takes his cue but glares with a pout that is…adorable, utterly and entirely. But then Jaskier is moving and Geralt really does protest. The lute snatched up in his string-warn hands, rolling onto his back and sitting up against the headboard. He’s pulling at Geralt –tugging the Witcher towards him, into his lap, laid out against his chest –one ear pressed to his ribs. It’s awkward playing, but Jaskier’s nothing if not adaptable and practiced. He finds his chords softly and starts up the song Geralt heard –that rock in the river. 

Below his ear is the strong thump of the bardling’s human heart –a drumbeat, a tempo –the rush of blood like the deep quiet water. 

“Who is this? And what is here?  
And in the lighted palace near  
Died the sound of royal cheer;  
And they crossed themselves for fear,  
All the Knights at Camelot;  
But Lancelot mused a little space  
He said, ‘She has a lovely face;  
God in his mercy lend her grace,  
The Lady of Shalott.’”

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno I put a lot of my own sensory issues in because I'm Autistic and cities are loud.


End file.
